My Brother's Keeper
by Elizabeth Jay
Summary: Title taken from Genesis 4:9 (NKJ). Written for tharrow's prompt: "The future batboys end up in the past? Cue much mayhem."
1. Chapter 1

Tim is finding it hard to sleep in the barren guest room that would one day become his bedroom at the Manor. He's wishing that Bruce hadn't banned them from the Cave. Patrol might take his mind off the time continuum, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, and his philosophy paper.

His philosophy professor would be having a conniption over all the rules of time travel that the Bat clan has collectively broken over the years.

Tim considers getting up and working on his paper until Batman and Robin get in. Most of the philosophy texts should still be located in the Library where he found them in his own time . . . and maybe he'll feel better once Bruce and Jason are safe in the Manor instead of trying to track down Talia al Ghul.

It's kind of hard to hide Damian's Wayne-ness even with the younger boy's cooperation-especially from the all-seeing eyes of Alfred.

Before Tim makes up his mind, there is a sharp rap at the door. Damian doesn't wait for invitation or even acknowledgement before admitting himself. The eleven year old stalks across the room and throws himself on Tim's bed with a warning growl.

Tim wisely rolls over and surrenders the covers.

Damian doesn't speak until he's fully cocooned in his blanket nest with the stolen pillows, and it takes him a few minutes even then: "I want to go home."

Tim hums an agreement, and tucks his bare feet under the stray corner left to him.

"I want to go home. This place sucks. Grayson sucks."

Tim automatically opens his mouth to defend their sainted older brother, but closes it when he considers the way dinner had gone earlier. Dick Grayson, age eighteen, had a few things to work out . . . like his temper and flair for drama.

"He kind of does," Tim agrees.

There are a few things that Tim is pretty sure he doesn't deserve—things that he doesn't think even Damian deserves—and eating dinner across from a teenage Dick and twelve year old Jason is one of them. It had gone . . . spectacularly south what with the yelling (Dick and Bruce), kicking (Jason), and flinging of foodstuffs.

Although Damian gets major points for throwing mashed potatoes instead of his steak knife. Tim might let him hack into some of Red Robin's mostly-confidential files as a reward, or install an AI on Damian's new bike when they get home. Maybe even call in and excuse Damian from school for a day if the good behaviour continues.

. . . The look on Bruce's face . . .

Tim pats the bundle of blankets absently, withdrawing his hand quickly to avoid losing it. "He had a few years of being really stubborn, until he got his head out of his ass," Tim explains, "and it did suck. A lot."

Tim remembers trying to convince Nightwing to return after Jason's death, and how the older man's stubbornness led to Tim becoming Robin. Even with Dick's approval, it hadn't been easy to win over Batman. They argued about him a lot. Tim used to think that it was his fault, but he knows better now.

"All he does is argue with Father," Damian continues, as if reading Tim's thoughts. "And that little troll is unworthy of Robin."

Tim swats the estimated-location of Damian's rear on principle, but it's unlikely the kid even feels it through the cushioning.

Damian only gives an aggrieved "Tt" at least.

"You don't get to judge Robins-past, present, or future," Tim informed the little demon primly. "It's not about skill or the persona. It's about . . . being the best Robin you can be." He prods Damian deftly without losing a limb, a tribute to his skill and reflexes. "Jason was—is a good Robin."

"He bites."

And Tim must have missed that incident, which he's kind of sorry for, but not surprised by. He just snorts, countering with: "So do you."

Damian purrs in a self-satisfied way that never fails to amuse Tim. He thinks Talia must have watched _Dark Angel_ while plotting on bringing Damian into the world, but no one in his family would appreciate the geeky reference even if he was in the right era to mention it. Maybe he can point out Damian's cat-like tendencies to Bart when they get back. Maybe after building up some good will so that fingers don't end up pointing at Tim when catnip starts appearing in Titans Tower.

"Your tenacity in going for the jugular is both appalling and inspiring," Tim decides on as an acceptable offering of goodwill.

"Your precision with a liquid projectile is impressive," Damian returns, because they're on the same side for now. Until they find a way home, they're an unlikely team-up with unlikely enemies, and Damian knows the value of politics even if he rarely employs them. "I underestimated your resourcefulness."

"Lemonade stings when it comes into contact with eyes, nasal passages, or open sores," Tim explains modestly. "It's fortuitous that Jason drank nothing else as a child."

He wasn't sorry. Dick's barb about real sons had stung Tim as much as it had Damian if for different reasons. Tim's tried hard to earn his place in the Bat family, and his status as son and heir has been questioned at every other turn; it hurts to hear Dick of all people say something so thoughtless. And Damian . . . everyone knows that while the boy may be Bruce's son, _Dick_ raised Damian.

It had been a truly glorious food-fight. Legendary even and the pair from the future had the advantage of a teamwork-dynamic that Dick and Jason had thus far left unexplored. If Bruce hadn't returned from the washroom, Tim and Damian could have easily claimed victory.

Judging by the suspicious gleam in Damian's eyes as he peers out from his nest, the little demon is also recalling the trauma inflicted on much more innocent versions of their brothers.

The battle is going to be repeated when they get home. Victory will be theirs. Dick and Jason would never see it coming.

"Todd called me names," and Tim groans, because if Damian is going to list every offense proffered by the other boy, Tim is going to have to smother him. "He's immature, clumsy . . . and he's going to die in two years exactly."

Tim twists to look at the clock.

12:42 a.m. April 30th in their world; he hasn't got a look at the calendar in this one yet.

Tim swallows, because he's watched Jason pick fights with Damian all day, but he's also watched the way Jason looks to Bruce for approval, and the way Jason jumps and flips down the last three stairs every time he uses them. Jason needs to dye his hair again, and his aim is terrible because he's a twelve year old boy and the newest Robin.

"Yeah, he is." There's a whole list, and Tim wants to throw all the rules about time-travel out the window. "My parents. Kon. Bart. Steph."

"Brown won't die," Damian mutters.

It might be a compliment or a threat, but it's a sore spot all the same, and Tim shoots back with: "Not for lack of trying on the Black Mask's part." He grimaces. "You of all people should know that you don't have to die to get messed up."

"Sometimes you just have to be born," Damian agrees, hollowly. He sits up, blankets sliding into a muddle around his waist and his hair sticking up in every direction. "Do you think Father will find Mother and I in this time?"

Bruce was certainly looking. One doesn't have to be the World's Greatest Detective to profile Damian, no matter what Tim tried to shield.

"I don't know. If he does . . . that would make this a parallel world. Things will change. Maybe none of the bad stuff will happen. Maybe none of the good stuff will. We don't really get a say."

Damian makes a face and throws himself back down amongst the bed linens. "I liked your lectures better when you were studying existential philosophy instead of moral philosophy."

Tim agrees. After listening to another long-winded spiel on the morality of fate and sacredness of the timeline courtesy of the expectorating professor, Tim would like nothing more than to suit up and pound on a few villains. Maybe get with the life-saving if an opportunity arises.

Tim really wants to patrol.

"It's late. We should get some sleep."

"Tt, obviously."

Damian begrudgingly hands over a single pillow, and Tim curls up on his side of the bed to watch the clock. Damian squirms, rolls over into the approved corpse-like pose in which he normally sleeps, closes his eyes and still ends up flinging his arms out wide.

"I can't sleep," the former-assassin declares. "This is all your fault, Drake."

"My fault? Who decided that the spinning vortex of glitter wasn't a serious threat?"

"Not that," Damian waves a hand dismissively. "I want to pound something, and it's all your fault for bringing up moral philosophical discussions. I don't care about the timestream. I just want to break Black Mask in half. Maybe the Joker too . . . we should spar, Drake."

Tim rolls onto his back with a groan and considers how archaic the technology guarding the Cave must be. He thinks about Dick's return to Bludhaven, and Bruce's little out-of-city mission.

"I've got something better," he decides. "Let's patrol."

Damian's eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. "Father wouldn't like that."

Tim shrugs.

"We don't have our costumes, and they would confuse the Gothamites of this time period if we did."

Tim lets a smirk slowly spill across his face. "I can think of a couple superheroes our age that are bound to have spares in the Cave."

"I refuse. Have you seen what they wore?! Willingly?!"

The Discowing suit . . . scaly underpants . . . a collared cape . . .

"Try not to think about the fashion faux pas, and imagine how ticked they'll be, the damage we can cause, and the villains we can pound," Tim argues carefully as he scoops the entire ball of blankets and boy off the bed. Damian's own nest works against him, and he'll later argue that is the only reason Damian is going along with Tim's idea.

No matter how fun trolling Gotham sounds.


	2. Chapter 2

"You want to play . . . football . . . with Damian and me?" Tim wrinkled his nose, and stared at the Batmobile instead of his mentor. "Do you really think that's the sport to introduce to an assassin?"

Not to mention the incredibly disastrous way that football had gone for Tim last time.

The younger-version of Bruce Wayne smiled ruefully. "I did give it some thought, but hockey and baseball give him weapons and soccer is hard to play without teams."

Tim opened his mouth, and Bruce shook his head.

"No. I've seen the outcome of you and Damian against Dick and Jason. It's not pretty."

Tim sighed. "How about basketball? Damian is somewhat familiar with it, and I'm not completely inept."

Bruce considered it. "We have a court out back. I played it once or twice with Dick when he was around Damian's age. He came to the conclusion that my height was an unfair advantage," Bruce warned, looking down at the boy who barely came to his shoulders.

Tim shook his head. "The way Damian cheats, you'll need whatever advantage you can get."

* * *

Tim is sitting on the sidelines watching Damian and Bruce play the fifth round. He's competitive, not suicidal. Besides, one can only beat the big bad Bat so many times before it gets depressing.

"He's really good at this."

Tim patted the bench beside him, and Jason took a seat beside him without hesitation.

"Do they play this in the future?" the younger boy asked.

Tim shook his head. "Our Bruce is busier, and out-of-costume bonding mostly revolves around food—not sports. Dick taught us how to play. I didn't care for it, but Damian took it as a challenge."

"I didn't know Dick could play basketball."

Tim grinned just a little. "He wasn't particularly good himself when he taught me. Bat-skills only let you fake so much, you know? Anyway, it was a learning experience for the both of us. Then he tried going easy on Damian to ease him into it."

Jason grinned back. "Please tell me the Demon bounced a basketball off Dickie-bird's pretty face."

"Back of his head," Tim reported in mock-regret. "I'll give the kid this. He'd rather lose than have you give him the victory." A wordless cry of outrage from the court made him wince. "And Damian hates losing."

"No kidding," Jason huffed, rubbing self-consciously at the bruises on his shin. "Still, I would have paid good money to see Dick Grayson taken out by a ten year old with a basketball."

Tim glanced at his companion. "The two of you don't really get along, huh?"

Jason shrugged. "Sometimes he's kinda awesome. He'll show me a new move or bring me presents. And I mean, he's him, Dick Grayson. He was the first real kid superhero and now he's Nightwing which is really cool. Plus he's got this really beautiful girlfriend who's an alien princess."

Tim decided that he was grateful that Damian's focus hasn't really settled on girls in any kind of positive mindset. Especially unattainable ones.

"Everybody likes him, and I like him most of the time too . . ."

"But," Tim prompted gently.

"Sometimes I'm in the way or just annoying and fine, I can get that, but he can be such a stuck-up golden boy about it!" Jason finished vehemently. "At first, I thought he was just pissed that Bruce likes me or that I get to be Robin, but then they start arguing and it's like he hates all of us."

Tim shook his head. "Dick doesn't hate you, Jason."

"Well, he's not half the great brother that you and the demon make him out to be," Jason returned, the good mood completely gone. "He wasn't even around that often until you two showed up."

Tim shrugged. He won't bring up Jason's death at the Joker's hands; the kid doesn't deserve that. So he tackled the second sentence. "He was on your side in the food fight."

Jason snorted. "Well, yeah, the two of you were killing us. If we hadn't teamed up, we would have been goners. I still smell like applesauce."

"You deserved it," Tim hummed in amusement. "Damian could have done a lot more damage if he wanted to."

"So could you," Jason grimaced.

Tim nodded graciously. "We make a good team despite everything."

Jason shook his head. "You guys hate each other, but you still make better brothers than Dick and I do. How does that even work?"

"He tried to kill me . . . more than once. I put him on a watch-list of heroes likely to go rogue," Tim deadpanned, watching Jason's eyes widen in shock. "Seriously, it took a lot of time and a lot of practice and more than a couple of disappointed looks from Dick." Tim thought about it a bit more. "It doesn't hurt that we're almost a decade away from anything familiar."

"I'd like to be ten years away sometimes," Jason grumbled.

Tim swatted the younger boy upside the head. "No you don't, and I don't want to ever hear you say it again." Tim waited the tense few seconds before Jason nodded reluctantly. "Besides . . . just think . . . ten years from now, and you're stuck with that one," Tim nodded at the court where Damian was challenging Bruce to a rematch. "Now go help your brother put Bruce in his place."

Jason allowed himself to be prodded off the bench, before hesitating at the court edge. "If the demon's my brother in the future, that means you are too, right?"

Tim smiled. "Yes, but I have to admit-you like me even less than you like Dick."

Jason cocked his head in confusion at that, but shook it off as he headed down the court to assist Damian. "You're still a good brother."

Tim shook his head, muttering under his breath: "You'll change your mind."

* * *

"Did you have fun today?" Tim asked, spitting toothpaste in the sink. There was no comment from the figure rearranging his bedcovers. "You looked like you were having fun."

"What is the obsession with that word?" Damian grumbled, tugging the sheet free. "You and Brown both; it's ridiculous."

Tim shrugged. "So no Father-Son basketball games in the future?"

Damian gave him a dirty look. "It is not the same, Drake. _They_ are not the same."

Tim conceded the point, and took his side of the bed. "You know, this is getting to be a habit," Tim commented lightly as Damian crawled into his nest. "What are you going to do when we get back home?"

Damian ignored him.

"It needs to be soon," Tim exhaled slowly, "and before we get attached."

"Tt—what's to get attached to?" Damian scoffed, folding his arms over his chest.

"Nothing," Tim agreed, pillowing his head on his own arms. "Absolutely nothing."

"We won't tell them."

"Can't," Tim nodded into his elbow. They lay quietly in the dark for a while just listening to each other breathe.

"I want to go home."

Tim sighed. "Me too."


	3. Chapter 3

Dick blinked a couple of times, tilted his head cautiously, and made a pleased note in the back of his throat.

Nightwing: 1; Exploding building: 0

Stifling a laugh, he pushed himself upright and caught a glimpse of the golden yellow cape a few yards away. It was moving, and Dick shoved a bit of rubble out of his way as he made his way over to the little demon from the future. Tim hadn't liked being separated from his Robin in tonight's patrol assignments; Dick didn't want to see what the older vigilante would do if Damian got hurt on Dick's watch. Tim could be kind of scary in a quiet, dedicated fashion.

Damian was sitting up by the time Dick reached him, head propped against one hand and elbow braced on a battered knee. Relieved, Dick slowed and leaned against a severely dented dumpster. "You alright, Robin?"

"I am fine," the boy ground out through his teeth. "You, on the other hand, are clearly brain-damaged."

"It worked, didn't it?" Dick grinned. "I'm gonna go secure the Riddler. Wait here, okay?"

Dick made short work of tying the Riddler to a convenient lamp post that was only slightly bent out of shape, and satisfied with their spoils, activated his com. "Nightwing to B—Riddler apprehended."

Since there were currently two Robins and two Nightwings running the streets of Gotham on paths that never crossed, the set that belonged to this time called in to "B" while the future vigilantes used "Batman." It lessened confusion without letting on as to the current number of vigilantes currently in Gotham. Their sudden ability to be in two places at once was adding to the urban myth with every night's patrol. By shifting the arrangement of patrols, they even kept the smarter villains from consistently differentiating between the different teams. So tonight, Bruce had Jason with him, Damian with Dick and Tim making a solo round.

"Warehouse 48B was leveled in the explosion, but Robin's pretty quick," Dick continued. "We'll wait for GCPD to make the pick-up, and meet you back at the cave."

_"Robin's status?"_

"Fine," Dick reported, somewhat confused by the non sequitur.

_"That his assessment or yours, Nightwing?"_ And it was the Batman voice, but it wasn't Bruce. Tim had hacked the secure line again. See-this was why Dick didn't think their guests are trustworthy.

He must have taken too long to answer, because Tim spoke up again—in his own voice this time. _"Robin has been known to conceal injury."_

Oh . . . B's not going to like that.

Dick made his way back to Damian who was still sitting in the pile of rubble. The boy's com had been discarded a few feet away. "Anything you want to tell me?" he offered, bracing himself on the shifting mess. He got a scowl, but no further elaboration and Dick skeptically took him at his word. "Okay, then let's get a move on." Dick grasped the tween's wrist and hauled Damian to his feet. The younger vigilante did not stay there, grabbing at the wall to keep himself from face-planting. Dick took a step back. "Want to try a second take or just tell me what's wrong?"

"My balance would appear to be compromised," Damian finally hissed. He flushes under the mask, and continues with the same even distasteful deadpan of earlier. "While your skull would appear too thick to be damaged, the concussive force of the blast was . . . substantial."

Translation: The explosion rattled the little demon's brains.

"Sorry, kiddo," Dick grimaced. "C'mon. I'll give you a lift back to the cave."

"I can walk, Gray-Nightwing," Damian corrected himself automatically.

Dick snorted, and crouched in front of the younger boy. "We can go with that when you can actually stand straight."

He thought for a moment that he might have to bribe or threaten Damian further, but either the boy saw reason or he really wanted to silence Dick. Green clad arms locked tightly around Dick's neck and Damian hauled himself up without any further assistance, wrapping his legs around Dick's waist unprompted. The kid had really taken a beating tonight; Damian hadn't yet learned to compensate for the lack of protection in the original Robin suit.

"Hang on tight," Dick warned and began the long climb back to the rooftops. He got a low "tt" in his ear for the trouble, but Damian was otherwise quiet. "I'm sorry that you got hurt," Dick offered to fill that silence. "I didn't realize . . . why didn't you say something?"

Damian shifted, tensed, and then finally answered. "Habit, I suppose. I normally have to ward you off at the mere possibility of injury."

That didn't sit particularly well with the new and improved Dick Grayson. He was constantly fighting for his independence and Bruce's recognition. The last thing he wanted to become was the overprotective smothering influence that Bruce sometimes specialized in.

"That's got to be annoying," Dick finally commented.

"It is," Damian grunted into his neck. The boy had cushioned his rattled skull against one arm and Dick's epic mane of hair. "There are occasions when my only hope lies in persuading Todd or Drake to peel you off."

Dick chuckled at the idea of Jason's scrawny little frame being able to intervene physically on Damian's behalf. "And how does that work out for you?"

"Poorly," Damian's grip tightened as Dick jumped a gap. "If you drop me, Drake will damage you in new and frightening ways."

More threats—Damian must be feeling better already.

"Understood," the older vigilante returned dryly, but Dick slowed down, realizing that the vertigo would be compounded by the concussion. "I won't drop you."

"Better not," Damian huffed, relaxing minutely.

"Hey, don't fall asleep," Dick cautioned, making his cargo scoff. All the same, it was his best time getting from the Docks at the far side of town and back to the Manor.

Somehow Tim Drake managed to beat that time.

* * *

_Tim was waiting outside the door when Damian started to stir. He let himself into the younger boy's room in time to catch his younger brother getting out of bed, and cleared his throat quietly._

_Damian eyed him in annoyance and flopped back down on the bed carefully. "Make yourself useful, Drake," he ordered crisply, and Tim allowed a very small smirk to grace his countenance._

_"Your wish is my command," he mocked, scooping the smaller figure into his arms. "Blanket burrito or nest?"_

_"We're staying here."_

_Tim nodded, propping Damian against his chest while he yanked on the bedcovers. "Trust me, if you're not in this bed when Alfred comes to check on you, the whole manor goes on alert." It took some creativity, but Tim was able to fold the blankets and sheets into an acceptable origami-like production with Damian at the epicenter._

_"I suppose it cannot be avoided," Damian muttered into his pillow. "Pennyworth is the determined sort." He had rolled to the left side of the bed somehow, and clearly didn't mean it when he added a curt dismissal: "You may go, Drake."_

_There was no mention of their usually nightly custom, but Tim seemed to understand as he walked around the bed in order to stretch out on the bare mattress of the far side. "Actually, I'd like to stay here . . . if that's alright?"_

_"If you must," Damian drew out, and then silence reigned._

Watching then on the security monitors yet again, Dick couldn't help wondering just what their visitors were up to.


	4. Chapter 4

"This is unacceptable, Drake!"

Tim calmly redirected Damian back towards the toilet before the next round of vomit made a mess.

"I hate you," his brother muttered into the toilet bowl.

Tim nodded serenely, and rubbed the little demon's back through the borrowed pajama top. "I know," he agreed amiably, reaching above his head for the glass of water. "I hate you too. Rinse and spit."

"This is all Todd's fault," Damian insisted as he sulkily obeyed. "He ought to be punished."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Having the flu isn't a capital offense, Damian." He rested the back of his hand against Damian's forehead. "You're a little feverish. Do you think you're done throwing up for now?"

"There's nothing left to throw up," Damian informed him peevishly.

"That's what you think," Tim snorted, and got to his feet. He gave Damian his toothbrush; it's a small price to pay and he can always ask Alfred for a new one. The younger boy spits into the toilet again, rinsing with his glass of water and then putting shaky hands to use in leveraging himself upward.

Tim scooped his little brother up before Damian succeeded, and headed back into the bedroom. Damian grumbled a bit, but allowed himself to be carried. A truer sign of illness could not be found.

The bed was in a state of disorder from their rapid exit. Tim blamed his sleep-fogged brain and reflexes as well as Damian's inability to use small words. _"Don't feel good"_ would have gotten the message across faster than _"Tt—Drake, I appear to have contracted Todd's gastrointestinal disease."_

Damian turned his sweaty face into Tim's bare neck, digging his pointed chin into the juncture of shoulder and throat. Tim took a deep breath, and reprioritized. All vomit had so far been contained to the toilet and easily disposed of. The bed could be remade.

And if Tim was going to catch the flu from Damian, well … then he's going to catch the flu. He'd already been exposed, so the kid might as well stay here.

He put Damian on Tim's side of the bed since it's completely free of blankets, and began to untangle the remnants of Damian's nest. He shook the sheet loose first, and then the thick blanket to restore some sense of order to the bed. He left the airy coverlet draped over a chair and went to the cupboard for an extra spare blanket as the one from the foot of the bed had already been absorbed back into the Damian/blanket pile.

There were four pillows for the bed and two throw pillows in the chairs so Tim built a pillow mountain at the head of the bed, and dragged Damian up to lay against them. Then Tim retreated to the bathroom for a glass of water, Tylenol, and the waste-bin to place on what was now Damian's side of the bed.

His good deed accomplished for the night, Tim crawled into the other side of the bed with his spare blanket despite knowing that Damian will have acquired the heavenly material by morning.

"It isn't fair," Damian informed him crankily, and Tim patted absently at the swaddled form. Damian grumbled, squirming for another minute before flopping off the pillows and down next to Tim. "I never get sick."

"Lucky demon," came an equally cranky voice from the doorway. Tim groaned, because Jason and Damian's rivalry transcended all that would stand in its path—Gotham, guardians, and apparently plague be damned.

The teen prodded Damian off so that he could get a better look at the boy in the doorway. Jason had spent most of last night projectile-vomiting with the occasional relapse between bouts of marathon napping over the course of the day. If he's awake and expecting to be entertained …

No, Jason still looked like death warmed over despite being wrapped in his dressing gown. Furthermore, he had come armed with both a blanket from his bed and a bucket.

"Don't you have a bed, Todd?" Damian drawled, propping himself up on Tim's pillows like he has some sort of defensible ground.

Luckily, Jason wasn't at full capacity either and missed the opening. He just clutched his bucket tighter and turned exhausted green eyes on Tim. "Bruce isn't back yet, and I didn't want to wake Alfred, and I heard voices …"

Tim sighed and held up his meager blanket. Jason was across the room and stealing the covers before Tim could rethink the decision, so Tim handed the kid a pillow from the unused mountain. Then because he was still feeling generous, Tim took one for himself and buried his face in it with one last warning: "Damian will hog all the blankets."

If the boy had a response, Tim never heard it.

* * *

"This is your fault, Todd."

The boy sputtered, flailing after the blanket that was rapidly disappearing over Tim and into the ball that was the little demon's doing. "I didn't ask to be sick," he whined. "Bruce makes me go to school."

"Father doesn't make _me_ go to school," Damian gloated.

"That's 'cuz you're not supposed to be here," Jason protested, wrapping his last blanket around himself in an attempt to thwart the demon's blanket stealing schemes. "You can't go to school _now_."

"I don't go to school at all!" Damian propped himself up on his elbows, using the sleeping teenager for support. He looked about as bad as Jason felt considering the weird milky tone of the darker boy's skin and his sweat-damp hair sticking out in all directions, so his victorious proclamation held little weight. "Grayson tried, and the superintendent refused to have me return."

Jason scowled, and scooted closer to Tim, resting his head on the older boy's shoulder the way he sometimes used Bruce or Dick for a pillow during movie nights.

Damian shoved at him weakly. "He's _my_ brother," the younger boy hissed.

"Well, he's my brother too," Jason reasoned, curling his knees up towards his chest. "In fact, Tim was my brother first." He had to roll to dodge the hit that would have landed whether Damian was in fighting condition or not. "Right?"

"He's not your brother now," Damian growled, flinging one arm possessively over the unconscious teenager. "You have Grayson. Go invade his bed if you must."

Jason blanched. "Are you kidding me? He's got his own place! He's got a girlfriend! I'm not some little kid!" None of these factors seemed to impress the demon-kid, and Jason cautiously tried to reclaim space without venturing too close to the angry boy. "He'd laugh at me."

"Grayson doesn't laugh," the younger boy told him solemnly before rubbing at his eyes.

"You don't go to Bruce?" popped out of Jason's mouth before he could stop it.

Jason did some math for the first time since their visitors from the future showed up. If Tim is little Timothy Drake and not quite a decade has passed … then Dick Grayson was almost thirty. And the demon brat was only eleven.

"It wasn't an option," Damian said simply, and a multitude of things that the demon brat had said over the last few weeks made a lot more sense now.

Grayson tried to send him to school. Grayson didn't laugh. Grayson shouldn't waste time on girls. Grayson was clingy and overprotective. Grayson allowed Damian to use swords and guns. Grayson would understand whatever Damian's current objection with Tim was.

Jason swallowed hard; the upheaval in his stomach wasn't the flu. "Is Bruce … dead?"

"_No_," Damian responded sharply. He shifted and buried his face in Tim's shoulder. "He was just missing. He came back. Father always comes back." The little guy had just gotten attached to Dick in the meantime, and Jason's big brother had _no idea._

"I'll share," Jason offered, still ridiculously relieved about Bruce. It sounded babyish even to his ears, but Damian was only eleven. There's a big difference between eleven and twelve. "I'll share Dick if you share Tim."

"No," Damian insisted tightly, burrowing deeper into Tim's side. "Get your own."

Okay, now Jason was offended. "He said you tried to kill him before … multiple times."

"So did you," Damian shot back, and Jason thought that maybe he'd had enough possible revelations regarding the future for one night. "He got _better_." The kid yawned and shivered somehow through all the blankets.

Belatedly, Jason realized that it was literally through all of the blankets. Somehow Damian had succeeded in stealing Jason's as well.

"Grayson says …" the younger boy announced haughtily around his yawn. "… That family isn't just through blood or on paper. Family is the people who love you even when you disobey."

Jason liked that. His Dick wasn't quite that wise yet, but if he'd get there someday … well, the demon-brat could keep the blankets, Jason decided as he drifted off himself.

* * *

Tim woke up to find himself trapped. Damian (all the blankets trailing behind him like a majestic cape) was sprawled over top of him with limbs flung wide in a bid for bed-wide domination. Jason was curled in a ball alongside Tim's hip and using the teen's lower back for a pillow, seemingly comfortable despite being wedged in the space under Damian's armpit.

Apparently Tim's torso made for better support than the nicest pillows money could buy.

There's a snigger from behind the door that no one in this room had closed last night, and Tim's eyes narrowed. "Dick Grayson, if you do not get in here and rescue me in the next thirty seconds, I will send incriminating photographs to every girl you will ever date. Yes, _those_ incriminating photographs."


End file.
